Peter's parents' home, Albany, New York. Thursday evening. March 17, 2005.

Peter half-listened as El described the argument between Henry and Angela in the grocery store, ending with how Neal had mended things.

"Classic middle child, as my father would say," El said about Neal.

Betty nodded, comparing the scene to ones she'd experienced in her many years as a school teacher. She'd taught fifth grade and was comparing three young adults to ten-year-olds. "Did you want to reserve the cabin?" she suddenly asked.

Peter had been paging through the calendar that was attached to the refrigerator with magnets. This was where Betty logged the requests for the cabin. "Maybe. I should see when I can get some time off."

El raised a brow at that. Peter generally had to be dragged kicking and screaming into taking time off, and he knew she'd quiz him about that later.

For now he returned to the kitchen table and took the beer his father offered him. "What do you think of Henry, Mom?"

"Smart. Maybe too smart for his own good sometimes. He likes to complicate matters, to keep things interesting. He's loyal. He'd do anything for his family and friends."

"A lot like Neal," Peter added. He let El pick up that thread as she compared the two young men. After a while he added, "It's fascinating watching them together. Sometimes it's like they can read each other's minds. Did you notice that, Mom? When we were in Hawaii?"

She shook her head. "I can't say I did, but often we were all in such a large group you couldn't observe much of the individuals."

True, but thinking back, Peter remembered times that Henry had pulled Betty into side conversations. He bided his time. The puzzle pieces were slowly coming together, but it was too soon to push for answers yet.

It was early the next morning, when he'd just padded down to the kitchen to make coffee, that his cell phone buzzed. "How are things in the cabin?" he asked.

Neal told him about the adventure on the lake, about dinner and the phone calls.

Peter laughed at the descriptions of the heckling. "That brings back memories. I used to do that as a kid when Joe was dating."

"Whatever Henry's doing, I'm increasingly certain that Angela was in on it. I don't think she's lied to me, other than the part about being on the outs with Michael. I haven't called her on it yet, not directly. When Henry gave us a moment alone, I mentioned I had a question for her about this vacation. I timed it so I couldn't actually ask anything. My theory is that she's feeling guilty and will give it all away soon. She's just too basically honest to pull off something like this for long."

"She pulled her weight on the Masterson sting," Peter pointed out.

"Yeah, but she didn't like Masterson, and anyway, she wasn't exactly lying. She was being herself, or a rock star version of herself, under a pseudonym. Listen, I don't have a lot of time before they wake up. Did you learn anything on your end?"

"I looked at the calendar where Mom logs the cabin reservations. She writes them down with whatever's at hand. Any given pen or pencil usually wanders away from the kitchen after a couple of weeks and she'll find another one. I can say with relative certainty that she wrote down your reservation around the start of the year, the same time my cousin always calls to reserve it for Thanksgiving. My working theory is that Henry made the request when we were in Hawaii, and she wrote it down as soon as she got home."

"In January. If he was planning that far ahead, imagine how much time he's had to perfect this scheme."

"And complicate it," Peter added, thinking back to what his mother had said the night before. "Remember that Henry likes to complicate things. Simplicity might be your best weapon."

"Like sword through a knot. If I can't unravel things, I may turn to my fencing skills. Thanks, Peter."

Only ten minutes later, his phone vibrated with another call from the cabin. "Forget something?" he asked.

"Yeah. Peter, what we were talking about earlier... I forgot to mention..."

"What?"

"Don't tell anyone else yet, okay?"

"Sure. Just us for now, until we get this figured out," Peter promised, but his gut was warning him something was off. "Before you go, I should have warned you about something. I noticed Barclay wasn't wearing his flea collar. There tend to be a lot of fleas around the cabin this time of year. You said Henry'd spent a lot of time with him yesterday?"

"Umm. Yeah."

"You may want him to give Barclay a flea bath. There should be some powder in the coat closet. And if a lot of that powder gets on Henry, that would be a good thing, if you know what I mean. If you see either of them scratching, look for that powder."

"Right."

"And don't tell him about it. You know how the power of suggestion can be."

"Yeah, I know."

"All right, then. Don't get too caught up in Henry's schemes. You're there to have fun, remember."

"Yeah, sure. Listen, the others are coming downstairs. I need to go."

"Talk to you later," Peter paused and waited until the line went dead, "Henry."

Had it been Henry both times? He and Neal were so practiced at impersonating each other, it could be nearly impossible to tell them apart on the phone.

Burke family cabin, upstate New York. Friday morning. March 18, 2005.

Henry told himself that Peter had guessed it was him calling, and this torture was all a mind game. So what if Barclay was scratching his ears? Dogs did that all the time.

But he was so itchy. He couldn't stop thinking about it. He stared at the coat closet, trying to remember if he'd seen the flea powder there when he'd hung up his jacket yesterday. Would they think he was nuts if he insisted on giving the dog a bath?

"Henry, you still with us?" Neal asked as he slid an omelet onto a plate.

Henry was clutching his coffee mug with both hands, so he wouldn't start scratching. "Just give me a minute." He strode over to the coat closet. If he could just find that flea powder and make sure it was there, he could quiet his mind. Coats, boots, hats, mufflers. "Where is it?" he muttered. He didn't see any boxes of anything.

"Need help?" Angela was at his elbow, speaking softly. She thought this was a ruse to give her some directions Neal wouldn't overhear.

He probably should have some instructions for her, but he couldn't think of anything except how much he itched and how much Peter Burke annoyed him right now. Had he lied about that flea powder, or had someone moved it? He almost ran his hands through his hair, but stopped. No spreading fleas to his head. He closed his eyes and tried not to groan. Now his scalp itched. He walked back to the table and started eating his omelet.

"This is fantastic," Angela said to Neal. "You're a great cook."

"Glad you appreciate it," he said.

Henry stopped shoveling the eggs into his mouth and took time to taste his food. "It's pretty good."

"What is it with you this morning?" Neal asked.

Henry sighed. "Barclay isn't wearing a flea collar. Maybe we shouldn't let him outside."

"Of course he's wearing a flea collar."

Henry glanced at Barclay. Nope, that was not the standard white flea collar his dog had always worn. "What, is it invisible or something?"

"No, the flea repellent is in the regular collar. Elizabeth told me about it once. The kennel where they board Satchmo sells them - designer flea collars. She gets them for her sister's dog and for Barclay, too."

Henry started to relax. The itching eased a little. "Good. It would be a shame to lock him inside when he likes romping around with us so much. Tell you what. Finish your breakfast, and when I come back we'll follow one of those trails that lead up the mountainside. I've heard there's a great spot for picnics up there. Angela, you'll pack a lunch for us, right?"

"Sure but where are you going?"

The itching had subsided significantly, but he knew what it would take to completely rid himself of the sensation. "Just gonna take a quick shower."

As he bounded upstairs he could feel their questioning glances. By the time they got back from their hike they could very well be dirty and sweaty and in need of another shower, but he didn't care.

His plan was still on track, he told himself, even if Peter Burke had won this round of mind games.

###

"Do you have any idea what that was about?" Angela asked Neal.

He shook his head. "None." That had been weird, but at least it gave him time alone with Angela. "Listen, Henry keeps interrupting us before I can ask you something. It's about this vacation. You said you were on my side."

"Yes. I'm so sorry, Neal."

"It's okay. I know what he's like."

"He said we weren't manipulating you. I was supposed to plant some ideas to get you thinking, and then we'd go with whatever you wanted. He said he wasn't doing anything other than smoothing things along." She'd rushed through the confession and paused to take a deep breath. "It all sounded reasonable at the time, but now I think there's more going on."

"If I'm right, Elizabeth is in on it, and maybe Betty, too."

"And June," Angela added.

"She reminded me my birthday was coming up," Neal remembered.

"Until yesterday I thought that was her only involvement, but I made sure to reach Henry first when we picked him up at baggage claim, in case he had any last minute adjustments to the plan. He was on the phone, and I heard him saying goodbye to June."

"The plan is still in play? What more is there, beyond getting us all where he wants us?"

"He has an agenda he's ticking off in his mind. Activities, foods... I don't know most of it. I'm supposed to follow his lead and help make sure we're all having fun."

"You thought the boat tipping over was fun?"

"God, no." She narrowed her eyes. "Did you think it was fun?"

Even though he hadn't enjoyed it at the time, it was kinda funny looking back on it now. Peter had certainly chuckled over the story earlier this morning.

"You do," she accused.

"Your scream could probably be heard in the next county."

Angela walked over to the sofa and picked up a pillow. "Say that again. I dare you."

The pillow fight that ensued was still going on when Henry returned. He joined in, with Barclay barking joyously.